


Preening and Keening

by anna1795



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: AU! Wing lives, Light Bondage, M/M, Nosy Rodimus, Simultaneous Orgasm, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Wing Grooming, pillows, preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna1795/pseuds/anna1795
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost Light AU! Wing Lives. Because reasons. </p>
<p>It's no secret that Drift and Ratchet spoil their third lover, but they have a valid reason for it: it's good for his overall health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preening and Keening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kuukkeli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuukkeli/gifts).



            “I’m telling you, I saw Rung slap Whirl for that comment!” Ratchet snorted, trying to convince the red and white speedster languidly keeping pace with him. “I was laughing so hard that I accidentally snorted high-grade up my nose, and so did Skids!”

            Drift cocked an optic-ridge at the mental image. “Wouldn’t that hurt, though?”

            “Oh, it did,” Ratchet nodded, his chuckles dying down, “but the look in Whirl’s optic and on everyone else’s face was very much worth it.”

            “I would say something about how finding humor at someone else’s expense, emotionally or physically, is an unhealthy means of catharsis for the spark,” Drift pointed out in the haughtiest, most high-brow tone that he could manage, before that little charade imploded spectacularly as he emitted a small cackle from his vocalizer. “Nope,” he wheezed. “Couldn’t keep a straight face.”

            Ratchet playfully put his hand to Drift’s faceplates and shoved him gently into a wall as they were approaching their co-habitation suite when he was distracted by an audible thumping on the inside, like a large object was bumping into walls and furniture. There were a few, softer scrapes before significantly more weight resumed thrashing. Curious, the two red and white Autobots approached the door and shooed a leering Atomizer away in order to be able to access the door’s control panel. As soon as the door opened, a blizzard of white organic feathers exploded in their faces and out into the halls, sticking everywhere and clogging their oral intakes.

            “Wing…” Drift spluttered, spitting out downy feathers and trying to sweep the escaped organic stuffing from out of the hallway before Ultra Magnus saw the mess and had an engine seize-up. “Did you accidentally break a pillow open?”

Their resident third, Knight and lover of their two damaged souls and all things soft and organic, innocently poked bright gold optics out from under a gigantic pillow atop what could only be an adult mech-sized recreation of a human pillow-fort. The three mechs’ shared berth had been completely stripped of the cushions, pillows, and soft blankets that the jet shared a passion with his lovers. The bed dressings had all been laid out in their receiving room in what might have once been an orderly structure, but that had quickly gone flying out the window in favor of a grand, sparkly and colorful mess. Wing’s optics were the only visible part of his face; his slender wings stuck out randomly from under a couple of cushions, and…was that a length white of meditative binding cord snaking into the fort?

This wasn’t necessarily a rare occurrence for Wing; when he couldn’t find something meaningful to do aboard the _Lost Light_ (‘meaningful’ having different meanings for a Neutral than the rest of the Autobots onboard), his inner sparkling came out to play. Bubbly and excitable was better than depressed and moody for everybody (an unfortunate consequence of when Wing had been placed directly under Ultra Magnus’ supervision for one shift on-duty, more commonly referred to by Whirl as ‘That Incident Which Must be Never Mentioned Again, For the Love of Primus’).

Oh, the two of them spoiled their Winglet, freely and without remorse. The already-existing relationship between the Knight and the ex-Decepticon had drawn Ratchet in quicker than a ship dropping into a black hole and into the point of singularity, and it seemed only fair to give back to Wing when he gave them so much love in return. Pillows and other soft things, mostly of a more durable organic material, had been well received. In return, Wing was a happy and complacent jet who loved them to death, and he always cleaned up his messes afterwards.

Messes, unfortunately, were unavoidable. “Sorry,” the white jet chirped contritely. “I’m just a little…umm…stuck.”

“Stuck?” Ratchet asked flatly, pulling a stray feather out from the middle of his scarlet chevron. In silent answer, Wing sat up from under his collapsed construction, shaking off cushions and scattering more feathers everywhere. Ratchet’s eyes widened while Drift made an obvious effort to keep his cooling fans from switching on at the sight. Their poor, wonderful jet sat on spread knees, covered in a mist of downy feathers while his hands and arms were tangled in a looping, knotted mess of white binding ribbon while the loose ends lay looped around his right wing construct. There was an embarrassed blush running over the Knight’s face, and just… _gah_.

“Right,” Drift gulped, resetting his vocalizer and only managing to blurt out the ever-profound “you’re stuck” in a mix between a cough and a squeak. Wing looked positively delightful in every sense of the word (that mattered right now, anyways). With a shake of his head to clear his processor, Drift’s face split open with the goofiest, most loving grin.

Ratchet gave a humored snort. Younglings, honestly. ”Silly jetling,” he admonished in his most serious Ratchet the Hatchet voice before he smiled and crossed over to the heap of pillows, Drift closely following behind. The two of them knelt on the soft cushioning beside their trapped third, peppering him with soft kisses to his blushing cheeks. “Alright, what have you done to yourself this time?” Wing looked between his two lovers curiously as Ratchet performed a medical scan to make sure that Wing hadn’t done any actual physical damage to himself, while Drift ran a gentle hand over the tangles that gnarled Wing’s hands and arms.

“I accidently broke a pillow,” Wing admitted with a squeak when Ratchet tested out the tip-component of a wing. “Now, I’ve got feathers in my seams and I can’t reach them. I tried to floss them out with some binding ribbon, and…well…”

“That went absolutely nowhere,” Drift deadpanned with a small smirk, tugging a loose strand of the ribbon. “Poor Wing,” he cooed, nuzzling the jet’s cheek and making them both flush a little with heat and affection at the others’ antics. Ratchet just snorted but did the same to the other side of Wing’s face, adding a kiss for good measure.

“Just lay down,” the medic instructed, pushing on Wing’s torso until he lay slightly reclined on the collapsed pillows. “The two of us can get those feathers out without a problem. Keep your wings out.” Ratchet aimed a meaningful glance at the speedster of the three of them, and Drift responded with a silent grin.

Wing saw the exchange of glances between Ratchet and Drift and his optics widened to an impossible degree. Shock quickly morphed into delight, and the white jet very eagerly stretched out his wings to the fullest that they could manage, quivering with anticipation.

An abridged explanation: Preening has a long, storied tradition among the flyers of Cybertron. It transcends model types, factions, religious practices, and cultural discrepancies. The practice began when, as flyers can very rarely groom their own wings to a healthy extent, they relied upon each other to carefully examine under sensitive plating for old and damaged sensors, cut energon lines, or metal mites, circuit-midges, and a host of other mechano-parasites that could wreak havoc on the sensitive wiring underneath. This communal upkeep led to the universal behavior among flyers as being quite social, and preening became a practice associated with deep intimacy and trust exchanged between mecha. You were laying your most sensitive appendages, what made you a Cybertronian flier, to someone that could, with a lack of knowledge or respect, cripple you for life.  

Enormous tomes were written about the extent to which flyers preened each other. At prestigious universities, sociologists of all frame types debated the role that preening played in flyer society and politics. In Vos, Seekers had developed the practice into an artistic ceremony with much pomp and circumstance, particularly among the emirs and other upper-class. Towers-mecha in Iacon, groundling and flyers alike, spent extravagant sums on educating their newsparks to one day become highly sought after courtesans that specifically focused on the delicate art of preening. Even in Kaon and Rodion, two of the darkest and seediest areas of Cybertronian civilization, had the unspoken rule that flyers’ wings were off-limits unless you were in a death match or they asked you for a preen. If you were a grounder and preened a flier outside of Vos, you might even be lucky enough to have them give you a thorough physical grooming right back.

For those grounders privileged enough to be in a relationship with a flyer, learning how to properly preen was a matter of success and failure, how you defined yourself as a lover or mate.

_Very_ luckily for Wing, he had two beautiful companions who were well-versed in the practice. Ratchet had had previous liaisons with flyers before, and had done a report on the psycho-medical benefits of preening on recovering patients during medical school. Drift’s knowledge was far more practical and extensive. His start in the Dead End had helped him encounter all sorts of down-on-their-luck mecha, including several flyers. Introduced through Gasket into their little protective social groups, these flyers helped show the uneducated groundlings precisely how to go about searching for common mechano-parasites that could infest any frame, and the gentler means by which to be rid of them. Further developed among the Decepticons, Deadlock had had an unusual reputation as being a very thorough preener (rumor had it that he’d once been called in to preen with Starscream’s Command Trine, though nobody but the parties involved were ever truly privy to the details).

In tandem, two hands spread lightly over the middle expanse of Wing’s wings, fingers splayed flat and completely still. Two sets of brilliant blue optics stared down at their jet, not moving an iota until Wing gave his permission. Giddy with anticipation, the jet nodded with an eager beam and settled his main body against the pillows while Drift and Ratchet simultaneously started going over the wings with meticulous detail. Each started at the very tips of the wings; Ratchet used the finer points of his fingers to start digging underneath the edges of plating to get at dried grit and dirt, while Drift leaned closer and used soft breaths from his mouth and the lightest touches of his fourth and fifth fingers to inspect for parasites and dead node clusters.

The two different sensations on such sensitive areas of his body just felt so good that Wing couldn’t keep his cooling fans from snapping on. He squirmed a little in the makeshift nest, hands trapped and nearly immobile, keeping him from reaching out to touch them. Curse his playful nature right now! Vents and seams opened up in response to the tender ministrations, clogged with fluffy white organic down that was just barely an itch on Wing’s sensors, but could be disastrous if not cleaned out. Washing them out in a wash-rack wouldn’t be useful at all because then they’d just stick to the plating, but… _ooh_ , but if Drift kept using his glossa to attract the newly moistened feathers out of Wing’s seams like that, there would be _no problems whatsoever_. The jet’s engine spluttered faintly in aroused shock as the tip of that sinful glossa dipped in between the plating and caught a feather while running up an energon line sensually.

On the other side, Ratchet gave a soft chuckle against the sensitive plating while drawing more feathers out of the seams with a small hook attachment contained in a finger-digit. “Having fun there, are we?” he asked Wing innocently, brushing the pad of a finger over a small sensor cluster towards the center of the wing array and causing Wing to arch his back and let off a shrill squeal. Drift snickered and added a soft nibble along the edge of white plating to add to Wing’s quickly mounting pleasure. Legs curling and uncurling, it took all of Wing’s remaining concentration to keep from moving around too much with the amount of careful adoration to his wings. It certainly didn’t stop him from giving off a shrill moan. Ratchet’s free hand reached out and gently stroked down Wing’s neck cabling, feeling the vibrations from his vocalizer.

“R-r-r-ratche-“ the jet tried to choke out, but his vocalizer kept glitching and stuttering. “M-mmm-my h-h-h-hands...” Abandoning the attempt at vocalization, Wing lifted his hands a little and tried tugging at his bonds to get his point across while looking imploringly at the CMO. Ratchet leaned over Wing’s body, one hand still gently scratching at his wing armor, and kissed the bound and twitching hands.

“No no, little Wing,” the medic cooed. “Can’t have you moving around too much and hurting yourself.” He hooked an end of the binding cord and tugged it, pulling Wing’s hands closer together and making him whine at the teasing. Drift snickered from where he was occupied and gave a playful nip to a sensor cluster, turning Wing’s whine into a shriek of delight.

Feathers were drawn out of seams while grit and dead sensors were mildly scraped away, all the while aroused charge was building between the three mecha. Wing seemed to be the conduit between the three of them, transferring charge from Ratchet through his main body and over to where Drift was at his other wing. So many different energies running through his system made his spark thrum in his chest and his engines roar. Unbidden, his interface panel started to retract. “Nuh uh,” Drift admonished with a slight buzz of his lip plates against energon lines that sent vibrations and bursts of heat all throughout Wing’s body, but that didn’t stop him from groaning at Drift’s denial. “We’ll get to it, sweet spark,” the swordsmech promised one of his two beloveds with a kiss to Wing’s heated brow. “Eventually.”

“Ee-ee-ee…heh-heeeeeh,” Wing cut off his pleasured keen so that it morphed into hot and heady panting, squinting his hazy gold optics at the two mechs at work. Denied the access to his interface panel, there were very few other places for that charge to be dispelled, and it was building extremely quickly. A heat flash rolled through him again when both Ratchet and Drift kissed near where the wings joined at his back, and he arched again against the pillows. A medical scalpel sneaked out to cut a single line, and his hands were free to clutch at the blankets tangling with his twitching legs. They were getting so close to him now, like a progress bar on a monitor showing how close a mech was to overload. Wing figured in his brief lucidity that he might be at about 92%- wait, now it was higher because _sweet Primus, the two of them had stuck their glossa into the joint wires and it was all too much and that charge was all built up and needed to go somewhere_ -

“EeeeeeEEEEEEEEE!“ With a high crescendo added to his keen, Wing barely had the focus to instinctively grab at his lovers’ helms to keep their glossae from being pinched as his wings flapped from the tactile overload. Consequently, the charge running in bright blue and gold sparks over his white plating raced through Drift’s helm finials and Ratchet’s chevron, tipping the both of them into joining Wing for the cyclical overload. Their charges fed into one another, drawing out that moment of sweet bliss, when every non-vital system subsequently shut down from the rush of pleasure through their frames. The three of them collapsed onto the pillows, bringing their overheated frames close together, engines and cooling fans running full blast.

Feebly, Wing noticed that his servos had been freed before his overload, and used his newfound mobility to drag the two red and white mecha close to his frame, their helms close together. “You two,” he panted, first kissing Drift on the nasal ridge and then Ratchet on his chevron, “had way too much fun with that.”

“Worked, though,” Drift wheezed around the buzz of his cooling fans. “Got all those feathers out.” He gave a peck to Wing’s cheek and snuggled closer to his spiritual mentor and lover. Ratchet grumbled at the two of them and dragged them against his boxy frame, plain in comparison to the other two’s more seductive and sensuous curves, but well-loved all the same. Hazy blue and content gold stared back up at Ratchet from his chest plates.

“You two spoil me so much,” Wing moaned happily into the cuddle pile. “I’m the luckiest mech in the universe, I think.”

“Us spoiling you is good for your health,” Ratchet chuckled, his torso rocking with his chuckles and causing the other two to laugh with him. “Medically proven…if we spoil you, we get stronger and more satisfying overloads.”

“I’m not quite sure the science works that way,” Drift teased the tip of Ratchet’s chevron languidly, “but I’ll take it on good authority.” Wing nodded in bemused agreement and nuzzled his face into Ratchet's plating. 

“Aww, I missed out on all the fun!”

Three helms shot up in shock at the grinning red-and-gold speedster leaning in the doorframe, a smirk on his face. “Gotta say though, Ratchet, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Rodimus chuckled. “Wouldn’t the humans call you a ‘cradle robber’?”

Three different pillows aimed with perfect accuracy struck Rodimus in the face, one after the other, and caused him to fall backwards out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him and leaving the three lovers laughing merrily. That’d teach the captain to disrupt a perfectly successful preening session.

**Author's Note:**

> There! My first foray into actual sexual content!
> 
> ...what the hell did I just write? 
> 
> Credit goes to Kuukkeli, for our agreement that when it comes to Drift, there can always be more pillows and cuddling.


End file.
